


Far off yet is his doom

by Anonymous



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Gondor, Minas Morgul, Third Age, some discussion of Gondorian politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 15:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15145667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Eärnur, the last king of Gondor, rides to Minas Morgul to face the Witch-king.





	Far off yet is his doom

Eärnur was done waiting. He could no longer set aside the anger that he had felt since Fornost. 

Fornost had never felt like victory, not to him. At the memory, Eärnur flexed his right hand, and rested it on the sword-hilt fastened at his hip. In the east, the both Minal Morgul and Mordor were only growing stronger as time went on. Every time he saw the White Tree with its drooping branches, such a pitiful thing now, a rush of fierce anger would run through him. As he walked by it this morning, the sight of it further solidified his resolve. 

Entering the Hallows, Eärnur removed his crown with both hands and stared at it for a moment. It had never seemed to suit him, he felt. The silver gleam of its wings caught the torch-light as he placed it on his father’s lap and bowed his head in silence. He would not tarnish it by bringing it with him.  

* * *

 

Armored in bright and battered steel, he recalled Mardil’s words from the night before. Eärnur had never known the steward to ever be so angry as he was then.

“You will throw away your own life for nothing,” Mardil spat, “and Gondor will tear itself apart with no one left to rule it. You are trying to fight a war that has already been won, and will create a new one if you go through with this.”

Eärnur stood up and paced over to the window. He didn’t have the words to express the pull he had felt on himself for so long, or how the Witch-king’s mocking words would gnaw away at him forever if he let them. “The war was not won forever. Sooner or later it will start again, whether you see it or not. Minas Morgul is proof of that. I cannot continue to do nothing. _You_ may be content to forget that the Witch-king-”

“Forget?” Mardil said evenly. “Is that what you think? That I have forgotten how many men we lost? Or that I have become idle and listless, taking refuge in lore and forgetting the world outside? I have been trying to hold Gondor together, as best as I can, because its ruler refuses to. Even if you succeed in this, if you defeat the Witch-king, there is still Mordor to contend with, someday. If Gondor is not ready...”

A tense silence followed. Eärnur glared at him for a moment, then shook his head slightly, as if he were arguing with himself as much as with Mardil. “I misspoke, out of anger. As you say, you have served Gondor well with your own strengths, and I can admire that,” he said. “And you will continue to do so until I return. But my course is set now. There is nothing you can say that will change my mind on this. I admit, I am not the king my father was. Ruling over a land at peace has never been my strength. But my own strength and valor is such that I can put an end to the Witch-king, and rid us of the shadow of Angmar once and for all. There is no greater thing I can do for Gondor.” 

“You truly mean to go through with this?” Mardil said this more quietly. He seemed to be speaking more as a concerned friend - as much as their formal roles allowed them to be friends - than as his steward now.

Eärnur nodded. “Yes. I am more certain of this choice than I have felt of much else for a long time now. I cannot see myself not doing this. I will be riding out shortly after dawn tomorrow, with fifteen men.”

Mardil could not seem to meet his eyes. His lack of reply made clear the disapproval he couldn't openly voice.

* * *

 

He had hoped they would reach Minas Morgul before nightfall, and they made good time, but had arrived in utter darkness. Perhaps in this place it was always night, he thought idly, but didn’t consider the idea further. The absence of sound seemed weighted with something heavier than silence. He was dismayed to have to come here in darkness, and irritated at his own unease, but he felt sure that the setback would only heighten the sweetness of the victory that lay ahead. 

The horses would not go any nearer, too terrified to move. Eärnur dismounted, motioning to his men to remain where they were and to be ready for a fight. His rage far outweighed his unease as he approached the gate. The sound of the brittle dark rubble crunching under his boots accompanied his steps, small echoes drowning against the heavy silence of Minas Morgul.  

Eärnur pounded the hilt of his sword against the gate, savoring the sound as each echoing knock tore a wound into the silence. Then in a booming voice he called out: “The lord of Minas Morgul once challenged me to single combat. Let him come out to face me, if he still dares.” He felt a small rush of satisfaction at finally beginning to put into action what he had longed to do for so long. He had imagined it so many times that the words felt almost familiar now.

For a long moment, there was no sign he had been heard at all. Eärnur started to head back toward his men and he wanted to scream with frustration. The satisfaction of moments before had all drained from him. Then, when he was about halfway back, the gates very slowly began to move, the hinges opening with a hideous screeching sound that stopped him in his tracks. As a rush of foul-smelling air poured out, a familiar black shape emerged from the gloom, similar-looking figures following at its heels.  

The Witch-king, tall and terrible, came riding toward him and stopped to loom over him. The others were drawing their swords and riding slowly past. Horror and despair began to overtake Eärnur as he suddenly realized he could not move. It was as if his limbs were being held in place by some invisible power. Unlike before, his dread was greater than his fury. He could not speak out, but raised his head and glared in challenge at the Witch-king. It was all that he could do in that moment.

The Witch-king dismounted from his horse, and turning back to Eärnur made a strange sound that might have been laughter.

He could hear the clashing of swords and the yelling of men and the screaming of horses. And then it was quiet. He saw none of it, which made it worse. Eärnur turned around again, his limbs finally freed. Fifteen men and fifteen horses lay dead on the ground, and Eärnur stared at the scene, miserable and defeated, before a cold gauntleted hand crushed the air from his throat and sent him into darkness.

* * *

 

Eärnur opened his eyes, but it made little difference for his vision. There was a small window, too narrow to pass through, high up on the wall but low enough to look through at eye level if he sat up straight. All it showed him was the rocky landscape and the night sky, and that even if he somehow broke free, there was no path of escape. Eärnur punched his right fist against the wall in frustration.

He was finding it very difficult to think clear thoughts. All he could think on at the moment was the state he was in and his immediate surroundings. He was shivering in the damp cold, his sword and armor were gone, and his hands and feet were bound with crudely-made chains to hold him suspended a few feet above the ground. The rough stone wall at his back was uneven and slanted, so that he could not hold himself straight and it hurt to look anywhere but down.

He could see no door, which was strange. The entrance must be somewhere high above, he reasoned, though it was impossible to tell how high up the ceiling was from his position. The only sound was the slow dripping of oily, sulfur-smelling water, that came from a crevasse high in the wall and splashed to the hard ground.

Something glittered in the depths of that foul water. Not the hideous corpse light of Minas Morgul, but a distant light that seemed almost alive. For a moment he wondered why it seemed so familiar somehow, but didn’t have the energy to consider it further. 

With effort, Eärnur raised his head to the dark sky. He had the vague sense he was searching for something. _There. Earendil’s star._ Strange that something so familiar would take so long to recognize.  The old stories came rushing to his mind, not of Earendil, but of prideful Feanor and his doomed kin, of all the horror and sorrow they had sown. Somehow, this evil place made even that familiar light a thing of darkness.

‘No’, he thought, struck in the chest by an imaginary blow as the reality of his circumstances fully sunk in. This was all so wrong. He had meant to destroy the evil that dwelled here, had _been_ meant to destroy it, but he never even had the chance to draw his sword. He had not imagined anything like this. His men and their horses slaughtered, himself a prisoner. He refused to think about what might happen to him next, or else he knew he would die afraid.   

He had been prepared to die in combat, considered it a fair price to pay for vengeance and justice. He had imagined a noble end for himself, one befitting even the heroes of old. But stained with the blood of his own men and cheated of the promised combat, Eärnur felt more a fool than a king, snared in an inescapable trap. A trap he chose to walk into. _Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall._ The warning echoed in his ears like blame. _I gambled my kingdom on vengeance and desperate hope, and have only gotten blood on my hands._


End file.
